


Harry's Journal (Epilogue to The Curse)

by Samayel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Harry, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayel/pseuds/Samayel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt of Harry's therapy journals from St. Mungos, set after the events of The Curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry's Journal (Epilogue to The Curse)

Harry's Journal (Epilogue to The Curse) by Samayel

Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from Harry Potter or any other creative works of JK Rowling!

 

I'm only writing this stupid thing because the staff at St. Mungo's ( you lot) insisted on it...and when Hermione heard me complaining about it she swore a blue streak about it being for my own good and me needing it. I love her, and I am glad that I've got my friend back, but God, she can be a pain sometimes. I'm mostly glad the curse is gone. I'm glad it's over. I want to get on with my life and actually just live it, but they all keep telling me that I have to sort these things out and make my peace with them or they'll eat at me and mess up the rest of my life. I don't want that...but I don't want this either. Draco landing on their side didn't help much. I really expected him to support my desire to tell them all to piss off and let us be, but he's not at all like I thought he'd be. I kind of like that.

Where to begin? No point in doing the whole thing from scratch, so I'm just going to start with the curse. I didn't even know there was one until after it was gone. I just got captured and paid for it with pain. Bellatrix LeStrange could be a right bitch in her way. I wasn't that concerned over it because I'd been captured and tortured before. I've been through worse than she dealt out. All I really remember was a lot of pain. Lots of 'Crucio', 'Crucio', 'Crucio'. She might have been flat out insane, but she wasn't all that creative. Or at least I didn't think she was at the time.

I honestly couldn't tell you when she might have cast any other curse. It's just a blur of pain. I can kind of recall the sound of explosions and fighting and screams. I'm told that Ron died like a hero, jumping in front of Hermione to keep a Killing Curse off of her. I'm told that after that Hermione blasted Bellatrix into smithereens. Supposedly they had to clean up what was left with industrial strength Cleaning Charms. She got me to St. Mungo's, and they patched me up fairly quickly. What can I say? I recover from pain spells pretty quickly. Practice, I suppose.

My first clear memories were the hospital. I hated the crowds of people worried for me, but at least the staff kept people away when they could. I was only there a couple of days, and then I lit out for Grimmauld Place as fast as I could. I probably should have changed the wards...but I guess looking back its all for the better that I didn't. If I hadn't been driven off..I'd have likely never found ways to cope, and been mad or dead in maybe half a year or so. I got the invite to the funeral from the Weasleys...and even thinking about Ron hurt. Not like a headache...all through me. Right in the heart of me, but everywhere at once, like electricity, but worse. And that was when it was still mild. It came time for the funeral and I just couldn't make myself do it. I couldn't think of it or face the idea of a crowd of people and their...feelings, without curling up and desperately trying to think of something else.

I just read books through it all. Can't remember any of them. I was really just trying to be distracted. Hermione showed up and started chewing me out for not going...even though Ron got killed trying to save me. Oddly, I was okay with that. It felt like something I had coming to me, but when she broke down and started worrying about me, asking if something was still wrong...I could FEEL it. Her emotions were like waves of acid that burned me through and through. I snapped. I just lost it. I don't remember what I yelled at her, but it was pure hate. All I wanted was for her to leave and never come back, never make me feel like that again. It was fucking agony being in the room with her, but whatever I said did the job. She left in tears and I felt the pain leave with her. Owls started coming every day from other people. Everyone knew where I was. I could have ignored it, but I knew they'd come eventually. The idea of another scene like the one with Hermione was enough to make me grab a few things and go.

I didn't start off in London. I actually headed for Manchester. It was fairly far off, and a big city that would have enough people in it for me to hide. I'd switched most of my Galleons to Euros and pounds just before dropping off the map. I just kept a hoodie over my scar or a cap on at all times. I stuck to the Muggle areas. I rented a cheap flat in the worst part of town for cash. There was nothing much to do but eat, drink and watch telly. It doesn't take much to imagine that getting boring. It wasn't a good neighborhood, but even with the way people treated each other there, people started to know me. The local grocer, the old lady who watered plants in her window every day, the postman who never had anything to deliver me but seemed nice anyway. It started adding up. People would ask my name, ask if I was well, say hello. I already hid indoors mostly, but it seemed like every trip out got a little harder.

That started the drinking. I'd noticed that it was easier to handle being around people if I'd had a bit to drink. Just a pint or two. And then cigarettes to calm my nerves. Between the two I could make it out the door pretty easily. For awhile. There are a lot of blurry parts once I started drinking heavier. I realized I didn't hurt any where near so much when I was drunk...and its not like there was any shortage of people doing other things. I saw deals happen right in the street. One day I added a few joints to my routine. I could make it to a pub now and again when I was high enough, and that started things rolling.

I couldn't give you dates and times to save my life. There's so many blank spots in my memory you'd think old Lockhart had got to me, but its mostly just from being well and rightly pissing myself drunk as often as I could get that way. I still kept my wand near me in those days, but nearly getting robbed because I had cash on me taught me a few lessons real quick. I started keeping my real gear stowed away where no one would look, and just eking by on a few quid here and there. I made the jump to Liverpool for no reason other than I was sick of the same sites after almost a year, but I did all the same things there that I did in Manchester.

The habits picked up a bit there. I was stoned or drunk enough to be around a few people that didn't care a damn if I lived or died, but knew where to get drugs easily. If they'd been nicer fellows I wouldn't have been able to be around them, so I ran with a rough crowd out of necessity. They noticed that I seemed to be able to talk people into anything if I really needed to. It was magic, done wandlessly, but they didn't need to know that. It just helped to smooth deals and keep fights from breaking out. Funny thing...I probably saved a few people from beatings or a knifing. I can't seem to stop being a do-gooder, even rat-arsed drunk.

I knew I was gay. It's weird to just say it though. I didn't get a chance to do anything about it, but I thought when the war was over I'd get some free time and maybe find someone. Didn't quite pan out like I'd imagined. Once I was on the road I didn't want company of any kind. Just enough to keep me in drugs and booze. I was content enough, but now I know the curse was starting to dig into me as time passed. I kept getting restless, picking fights whenever people got fond of me or showed any sign of friendship. I can't imagine the reputation I had in Liverpool was very good. What would they have said? “That Harry, he's a nice enough guy, but keep your distance and don't cozy up to him...he can be a complete bastard.”

All that didn't mean I wasn't interested. Double cruelty, that was. I'd see people, fancy them a bit, but not dare do anything about it. Or people would fancy me and I'd tell them to shove off. That's kind of how it happened. I was somewhere two years into my self imposed exile when someone didn't take no for an answer. To be honest...I WAS giving mixed signals. He was fine. I liked him at first...or enough to feel like I had to drive him off by giving him enough grief to keep him away. He wasn't completely thick. He knew I'd fancied him. That doesn't make it right or anything. We'd scored some decent drugs, split up the take with the usual crowd, and gone back to the flat I was letting to do our share.

He decided to try to get my attention and offer a shag, and I was on enough drugs that I was half into it. As soon as it got started I panicked and wanted it over and him gone...but he was too keyed up on drugs and too revved up for the sex he'd expected. I started fighting back and he wouldn't stop, and fought back as well. I was too messed up even for simple wandless magic, but that wasn't what made me quit fighting. I know it was the curse now, but at the time all I knew was that I suddenly felt free. He didn't care about anything or anyone. All he wanted was to get off as quick as possible, and I was convenient. It was the lack of any decency. I felt safe. It hurt physically, but inside...nothing. Fucking nirvana.

Ten minutes later I'd been shagged with my pants around my knees on the floor of my flat, and my arse was killing me, but I felt like...well...almost like myself. Even through the crystal and the beer and weed, I felt lucid for the first time in ages. That didn't change that I was pretty pissed about the way it came about. After the adrenaline had kicked in my wits came back to me. I Obliviated the bastard on the spot so he wouldn't have the satisfaction of thinking he'd got one over on me. Fucker. If I'm perfectly honest in this, I should also add that I hexed the shite out of him on general principle. He didn't remember much when he wandered out of my flat, but those boils probably required hospitalization.

The genie was out of the bottle just the same. I knew a way to feel better in a pinch. I tried getting dates the normal way, but here's the crazy thing: people are generally fairly decent. In my case that made it a nightmare. I'd try to meet someone for a shag, and even high or drunk, they'd try to be at least a little kind...and it repulsed me. It was awful. Fancying someone and not being able to do a thing about it because they sort of fancy you as well and even if they thought you were a bit of a tart for coming on to them so easy...they at least try to be polite and modest about having one off together. Next thing you know you're yelling at them to fuck off and get away...and they just go.

Months of that kind of fucking up ensued. Nothing went right, couldn't get a shag to save my life without messing it up somehow. Spent most of the time just drunk enough to sleep through a war or high enough to not care if I was awake next to one. Then a fellow took me along with him to a club. An underground club. I'm pretty sure it wasn't even legal. It wasn't a bondage club...I didn't even know what that shite was. It was just a sex club. The things I saw disgusted me. The degradation. The contempt for anyone but themselves. The narcissism. It was appalling. But it hit me then and afterwards that they had something in common with the prick bastard that I'd done it with the one time before: they were selfish shits who just wanted to get off and didn't give a flying fuck about the person they were with.

I made it a few weeks before I went back...alone. I might as well have been anonymous. No one actually asked my name, and no one cared. I was a piece of fresh meat and since I seemed open to anything I got pretty much just that. Fucking nirvana. It was hellish...and glorious. I walked into there spelled for my own safety against disease, and I walked out of there aching and limping and stinking of the place and the sex I'd had all night with who-the fuck-knows how many people. Unlike the drugs...it lasted. I felt at rest for the better part of an entire week. Back then I'd just pass through every ten days or so and get my ultimate fix, then limp home and make do with a lot fewer drugs. As long as I had that route to relieve stress, I could get by with a fraction of the dope and booze I'd been using.

It wasn't a year before the club closed. Raided by cops I heard. Something about the place always seemed like it was on the edge of being busted, so I'm not surprised, but it was inconvenient. I was months without another place to get my fix until one of the former patrons saw me on the street on night and mentioned a place in Birmingham. Well, that cut it for me. I packed my things and headed there before the week was out. That place turned out to be a lot harder core than Liverpool's dives. It wasn't legal either, so I had to worry about closure there as well. Mostly, to blend in with the hard core crowd, I accepted that some the things they were into would have to be part of the routine. It was camouflage.

Somewhere about then I noticed I'd lost a stone and a half of weight and was getting sickly. Healing spells started being necessary. That put a stop to the occasional infections and the worst side effects of the drugs. It was all for the better, because I couldn't get decent tricks while periodically passing out from exhaustion. Once I made a habit of healing up after heavy drug use...I was able to hold myself together much longer at a time.

It wasn't a year before the place in Birmingham closed too. Again, no surprise. For someone without magic to protect themselves, it would be a public health crisis waiting to happen. I'd made a few contacts just in case that happened. I used them from time to time, and because I was bored...I took up getting pierced. I changed my look because I heard London has a steadier crowd and several actual bars purely dedicated to the kind of people I needed to meet. Besides...I was starting to get low on money, so supplementing my income with a little extra from grateful tricks seemed a good way to get what I wanted and keep it impersonal at the same time...all while making enough to keep myself in smokes and booze.

The bad part was that the curse worked its mojo slowly but surely, even through the haze of sex and drugs. I needed more. It wasn't like I wasn't high every day, but I just wasn't high enough. That's when I finally broke down and tried the skag. If numbness is what you're in need of, there's nothing better. I still have trouble closing my eyes and forgetting that I've felt that creeping perfection. Everything you hate about the world dies...for most of a day at a time. It doesn't take long to get addicted to a state of being like that. And I felt nothing but relief when I used it. Of course, the down side is that eventually you need more just to get the same high, and the quality is variable. Anyone who didn't have a mess of magic to back them up would be sick as a dog or dead in a few years.

It was strange to be back in London, but I'd shed my skin and looked nothing like myself by then. The colorful hair, the piercings, the clothes meant to advertise my availability and interests...it all added up to a disguise that worked fairly well as long as no one noticed my scar. By the time I started making the usual rounds at the bars with the worst reputations...I was fairly confident I wouldn't see anyone who would recognize me. Well...we all get things wrong from time to time, right?

That asshole. I write it that way because that's what I felt when I saw him then. What a patronizing shit he was. All I could think was that he'd promptly do the Slytherin thing and try to blackmail me into sex with threats of exposure. The mind boggling thing is that he didn't. I still haven't figured that out. If you'd told me that he'd do nothing but promise what I needed (even if he acted like he was God's Gift while he did it) I would have laughed. I hated him. I mean hate. Deep down, want to punch him in the face hate. Then it occurred to me that he probably felt the same. And that piqued my interest. Well...that and a buckets worth of cheap whiskey and the fact that I hadn't scored any serious drugs in almost two days. I'd been counting on a familiar face to motor me back to his place, slip me a couple of lines to snort, and then fuck the brains out of me for an hour or so. Naturally, Draco sent my trick on his way, Charmed or Legilimized into blind obedience, and that fucked my plans all to hell.

He was every bit the abysmal asswipe I expected. Selfish, obnoxious, gloating every second while he shagged me standing in an alleyway, shoving my face into the brick of the wall while he got off and laughed about it the whole while. It did the trick. I felt about as well as usual...although it wasn't lasting as long as it did back at the beginning of it all. It was still relief though, and that was worth something. I didn't expect to have any use for him, even if I did keep the number he gave me. I was just surprised that he'd mastered the use of a Muggle cellphone. Odd distinction, but while the general consensus among Salazar's fans is that Muggles haven't any rights in the Magical world, they don't seem all that personally offended by them as long as they stay in the Muggle world. In Draco's case, it had to do with blending in enough to find dates in the bar scene...and he wasn't about to be balked by petty prejudice over Muggle communications devices. Can't very well owl a homeless sex worker, can you? 

I look at this as a write it, and I realize more than coincidence had to be at play. He stumbles onto me, interrupts all my steady tricks and makes them take off on whose knows what kind of errands, and monopolizes all my time...only to wind up obsessing over me and unable to show anything but contempt. The universe has a sense of humor, I think. There's a certain poetry to it all. I may have been a mess, but it wasn't long before I sensed something 'off'. I'd thought at the time that at least at his place I wouldn't be in any imminent danger of sensing fond feelings...but he wasn't as hate-filled as he played himself up to be. He was right. If I'd sensed more than just a whiff of affection...I'd have been gone as fast and far as I could. Just as well that I'd dropped into the one place of the one person who could lie to my face without a shred of guilt. That's that old universe being clever again.

He was already pretty jaded by the time I got to him, and I wasn't much better. I'd been on skag for months, and had built a network of people I could score from that didn't try to be any closer to me than I wanted them to be. Draco and Hermione were right about more, too. I couldn't have had all that long to go before the curse pulled me apart. The sheer volume of stuff I was pouring into me at the time should have killed anyone my size. I still haven't gotten completely back into shape yet.

I have to hand it to him for those last weeks. I don't know where he found the energy to keep me that distracted. For a guy who doesn't work out to have that natural level of energy is just uncanny. I'm usually too arse-tired to do more than suck up caffeine in the morning. At least I've quit smoking...and the maddening thing is that was harder than skag to quit! At least the heroin was out of my system by the time St. Mungo's got done with me...but the cigarettes haunted my dreams for weeks!

I barely remember them breaking the curse..except the pain, which is in my memory clear as a bell. It took a long while for the staff of St. Mungo's to unscramble enough my brain for me to remember most of what I've written. I've never felt anything so awful as the agony that curse created in me. It wasn't like Crutiatus...where the body feels it...it was more than that. Mind, body, spirit...it hurt everywhere at the same time. As soon as they let me come to enough to feel what they were up to...it was all around me. Love. They had it pouring out of them and it was like being sandblasted. I totally get why the did what they did. The cuffs, the potion, the ambush spells to knock me out. If they hadn't...I can't say what I would have done to them in the state of mind I was in at the time. I could have hurt them, or myself. I'm told that I should have been dead years ago...and that the curse had time to reach a level its never normally reached in a victim before. They act like I should be proud...but I'm not. Not really. Mostly just horrified when I think of what it made me do to survive. I used to think all those things I did...came from me...not from desperation to live. I find it kind of comforting to know it was the curse...because I've been and done things that make it more than a little hard to like myself afterward. If you've ever slept in an alleyway with blood and cum in your underwear after being paid to let four guys take turns fucking you for half a night...its hard to have warm and fuzzy feelings about your place in the world.

I expected Hermione to feel bad about it...once I was well enough to know a few details...but Draco was the surprise. I was sure he'd be some kind of cocky shit, full of self confidence and strutting around like he'd saved the day. Not to mention demanding accolades and probably hitting me up for memory shags. Actually...I feel guilty about that myself. I had all those ideas about what he'd be like, and I got them all wrong. Hermione kept dodging my questions, but she can't lie to save her life. Ron was a terrible liar too, but she's actually worse at it than he ever was. Her face gives everything away, every single time. It wasn't hard to put things together for myself, just splicing what she did tell me with what she wouldn't but couldn't hide.

It bothered me...more than I'm comfortable saying out loud. I suppose that's the point of the journal. I can say what I thought, and what I didn't dare speak. My only feelings on Draco were disgust that he was necessary and useful...until I came to in the hospital and started remembering things. The only memories I had at first were just him being a pompous beast in between the occasional round of violent sex. Not exactly a ringing endorsement. Finding out that he...he unraveled what was going on, tracked down the spell, and got Hermione to help by basically begging and apologizing...just to give me my life back? It's an understatement to say that it spun my world around a bit. 

I spent weeks healing up. They dealt with the physical trauma easy enough, but I couldn't be in a room with people or let people touch me without losing my cool for weeks. Couldn't sleep right without spells or potions, couldn't eat properly without getting sick, couldn't hold a conversation without snarling at people and unloading a string of purely verbal curses. It was a lot of time alone between therapy sessions. After getting the details out of Hermione, the ones she WOULD share, what was there to do but think about it all? Mostly about him.

I really thought he'd come by. Maybe sneer hello, brag that he'd saved me from myself, make a few snide comments about having repeatedly shagged and slapped around the Boy Who Lived as his private sex toy. I was so sure of it. He never showed up. Not even a note. No one would believe me if I told them how much I blushed, while writing him attempts at thank you notes. I went through a ream of parchment before I got the hang of saying something decently instead of wasting an owl's time by calling him names. In a room, alone, blushing because after I'd thrown away a hundred false starts I finally said something that showed I was grateful...and I hadn't got any practice at that kind of thing in the past five years.

He'd said to me that he wanted me to live long enough to remember that he loved me. Right before grabbing hold of me. Right before the entire world turned into a nightmare. I had that memory come back to me, those words, that moment, that look on his face. It wasn't like any part of him I'd ever guessed at or known. All the stuff before...was an act. The spell wouldn't have worked if he hadn't meant it. If he'd been in it for selfishness, or expected some kind of reward instead of giving a shit about me...it would have failed. I wonder how many people go their whole lives wondering if the people around them mean what they say? It occurred to me more than once that I might be one of the very few people in the world to know absolutely and without doubt how at least one person felt about me.

I picked at that thought like a scab. He didn't answer any of the letters I sent. I just slowly got better, always wondering why he would do all that, or say those things, and then just go away. There were other things to worry over too. My sexuality for one. Or lack of it. I wasn't capable of it for weeks. I was just too messed up to have any kind of libido. Well...that kinda wore off after awhile. Coping with the reality of lusty thoughts after the places I've been...isn't exactly a cakewalk. After the degrading way I've treated myself...and been treated by others...it's sort of hard to think of sex in a normal way. Like it's a positive thing. The therapists got an earful about that! Trying to remember that before it all went to hell...I always used to dream about someone nice and handsome and decent shagging me silly so I could forget about all the rotten things in the world and just have that moment...was challenging. Then trying to have a decent wank for the first time years...and seeing the face of the guy who hung you up and caned you before dry-fucking you because he enjoyed dishing out pain and humiliation.

I have some self hatred issues. Still sort of working them all out. Also, some aggression problems. I tend to punch first and talk later. Not a great combination for a person whose name is suddenly back in the limelight. I've lived enduring violence for so long that it's hard to forget it all and act like other people do. Anyone hurts me, in anyway, and I want to hurt them, immediately. I suppose I'll be working on this for a long while.

Back to his face. I saw it in my dreams. How he looked at me when I came to in the old church where Ron died and Hermione rescued me from Bellatrix. I'd wake up at night with that stuck in my head...him looking at me with a smile that wasn't a sneer or a smug look of contempt. Of course, right after that the pain hit, so its not really a happy dream, but still, you can't easily dismiss a look like that. Like you're treasured and adored and wanted. Even if it was only for a moment, it said “I'll do anything for you.”

I had to see him again. He never did come to the hospital. They started letting me make day trips to Grimmauld Place, or spend some time at the Burrow after I was better at dealing with crowds, but once I was released and told to just drop in for the occasional therapy session all I could do was hang around Grimmauld Place or visit a few friends for dinners. I couldn't go pub crawling...I'd only been sober a few months, and they'd undone a LOT of damage at St. Mungo's, so getting pissed was out of the question. I just read books, and wrote letters, and started cleaning the place up. It was lonely though.

I think that's what made me the most bitter. I hated that I'd gone through all that and didn't have one happy memory of a lover. That's one thing at eighteen...you might pine for it but a lot of your mates are in the same situation, just young and inexperienced and waiting for the right person.. If you're twenty three and still haven't had even a moment of bliss, a goodnight snog, or any of the normal things people would have done by a certain age...it kind of rankles. Even worse if you can remember orgies and perversion of every kind, but not once waking up properly cuddled.

I need that more than I like admitting. Most people at least had family who were close to them. Someone hugged them or held them once in awhile. The Dursleys weren't much for that, at least not around me. Other than Ron and Hermione I never really had friends that were close enough to merit hugging, so I kind of think I'm needy about that sort of thing. Like I need it more than I can say out loud. Luckily Draco isn't as opposed to it as I'd imagined. He's almost the same. A long time not being close to anyone...we're alike that way. So maybe we cling together a lot, but I don't think it's a bad thing.

Having it feel good is still strange. Just feeling warm and close and safe is amazing beyond description. It took weeks for me to stop shivering when we'd get close. Not that that stopped me from finally having something like a normal sex life though. I just kind of expected that getting to that point would take awhile, or not happen at all. I didn't know he'd be like that when I found him.

I went to his place, and I was half certain he'd have some other guy hung up in his bedroom getting shagged or flogged or whatever. I knew it would hurt to see it, because it would remind me that he did something important for me and then just waltzed off to find his next pet. I went anyway. It spun me pretty bad. Draco “King Of The World” Malfoy, sitting in a dark room smelling like a Piccadilly Circus wino, with his flat looking like a disaster, mumbling at me and flopping onto the carpet in front of me, holding onto my pantleg and begging forgiveness before puking and passing out. Some hero!

Oddly, I really thought he'd be okay...and that if he was okay then I could lean on him for some truth...or just argue with him and get some stress out of my system. Seeing him like that, too messed up to take care of himself, not concerned about his image...it scared me. I'm still a goody two shoes when I see that kind of thing. What else could I have done? I couldn't leave him like that. He stunk and he looked like he'd be crossing the border into real sickness soon. Unlike me he wasn't using any spells to prop up his health. He really just didn't care. I think he was trying to die slowly and stay numb at the same time...which made a certain sense...if you were in the fix I was in...but it made no sense for him to be like that too!

Can't say I felt sorry for him. Not entirely. More like surprised and disgusted and upset. I cleaned him and the place up as a kind of thank you, and figured I probably wouldn't get much out of him except a polite request to fuck off back to Grimmauld Place. The breakfast part wasn't entirely generosity. I was starved and just nipped down the street for some groceries so I could make my own meal while throwing something together for him. I'd spent the night either cleaning him up, or fixing the flat up properly, or dozing on his chair (after I spelled the fucking thing clean.) I hadn't planned for scenario that involved being there more than an hour or so. 

I get it now. I didn't then, but I'm not that thick when it comes down to it. I curse more than he does, and I've started to see that I'm now the one with the worse temper, but I'm also a lot more perceptive than even I gave me credit for at first. He's a really proud person, or he was. Never the type to ask for help or lean on anyone else. It's one of the ways we're too much alike. He didn't love or care about anybody after his parents died. No one. He just locked himself away and acted like he ruled the world and had no use for any lesser creatures...but it was all a front. Just doing what he did for me...required him to let his guard down, feel things he'd refused to let himself feel, be a human being instead of some statue of ice. It was all or nothing for him. He could only keep pretending as long as he didn't open up or let anyone matter. As soon as he did, to make the spell work, it all poured out and he couldn't avoid it anymore. It changed...or rather...I changed everything. Like I cut a hole in his heart and everything that was holding him together leaked out.

I could never let him read this. It would hurt him to remember this stuff. I don't care what the therapist thinks about it all, but Draco's better off not knowing the awful shite in my head. I didn't fall in love right away. I think part of my was still expecting him to be as awful as before. I thought he'd get angry and we could fight...and this time I'd fight back and hurt him for everything he'd done, nice and personal, with my bare fists instead of a wand. I remember being on edge all the time, even after we'd taken up shagging, but he never seemed to get more than irritated with me no matter how much I baited him. That's when it hit me that it was real. He'd changed...a lot. The changes were legitimate, and I couldn't just hang my old anger over him forever.

I wanted to. God, I wanted to be angry forever. I wanted someone to vent everything that pissed me off through my whole life...someone to hurt to make me feel better. Then I realized I was just like him...before. I don't really want to go into exact detail on how that made me feel. I'll hand it to you lot here in St. Mungos...you're a fair hand at talking someone down from the edge of madness or suicide.

But that's when I started to really love him...when I stopped finding reasons to hate him for the sake justifying my anger. He can be a total prick when he's in a foul mood. Sarcastic, arrogant, snide, and oh-so-fucking-superior. It's infuriating! But...he gets over it. Then he's kind, affectionate, passionate...everything you'd never expect. I like it. I like feeling wanted because it makes me feel like I'm worth wanting...and I have trouble feeling that way on my own. He could probably get away with being a total bastard...and I'd still cling to him...because I need the way he makes me feel so badly...but he doesn't exploit it even though I'm sure he knows he could. He's a lot more perceptive than he lets on...so I'm sure he knows more about how I feel than I can guess. 

Maybe its me indulging in shocking you you, since you think my personal life and inner thoughts need so much attention, but I've started to really like sex, and not just a little. He can be cruel, but never in a way that hurts. I mean in the way that pleases. He can tease me almost without trying. Makes me pant and beg and curse for the chance to come. His prick is gorgeous now that I get a real chance to properly savor it and enjoy it. The shape of it, the heft, the thickness. Coming into his hand because he's stroking me while I grind back onto that perfect cock at my own pace is a sensation I'm not sure I can adequately describe. He's got enough stamina for any three guys...and I've been with enough people to make that an honest statement of comparison. Half the time I'm so needy I won't let him pull out of me when we're done. I like falling to sleep still connected to him.

If you're worried about me, don't be. I'm happier than I actually know how to say. I'm getting better. Less angry, more alive. Less afraid, more content. I don't think I hate myself anymore...at least, not much. I don't like all of where I've been, or some of the things I've done...but I know they aren't who I am, or then beginning and end of me. I expect to get this journal back when you're done picking my head apart to make sure I'm well. I'll probably burn it on the spot to say goodbye to what I've let go of here. Just a hint: sooner would be better, I've got a life to go have, for fuck's sake!

H. Potter

 

FIN


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